What Did I Do?

by Jessica Jarlvi

  She smiles at Greta and her naïvety.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says.

  *

  That evening when they’re lying in bed, Kristin turns to Niklas, a need to share.

  ‘I wish my mother could be like yours,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘I mean, I love her, but she was never my friend.’

  ‘Parents should be parents, not friends,’ he says.

  ‘I guess. Yes, you’re probably right.’

  It’s easiest to agree. She doesn’t want to scare Niklas away.

  ‘You’ve only showered once since we got home,’ Niklas says, switching the bedside light off.

  They giggle at this and she slips a hand under the cover to interlink it with his. She doesn’t tell him about the stinging acetone she has poured under her nails or the floss that’s made her gums bleed. In the dark, she’s an ordinary woman lying next to her boyfriend on a Saturday night.

  Chapter 7

  It was time for exams, which sent my boyfriend into an intense study bubble. I had assessments of my own, but my work at the restaurant meant I resolved only to pass them. My boyfriend was much more ambitious, partly because of pressure from home, and also because he wanted to show the world that he could be successful in his own right. I had wrongly assumed that money would make a person relax and enjoy life.

  Although I respected his dedication, my patience started to wane after being neglected for two consecutive weeks.

  ‘Please can we meet up?’ I begged. ‘I miss you.’

  I needed to assure myself that we were on track, that our special bond was intact.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I miss you too, but I have to be disciplined.’

  At least that was what he said. What if he was actually growing tired of me?

  ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he promised, but I felt my confidence dwindle. There had been no weekly anniversary cards the weeks we had been apart. Feeling down, I didn’t exude the same positive attitude at the restaurant that I normally did.

  ‘Hey, you look like you need some fun,’ one of the regulars said.

  He was a few years older than I was, a worldly type who was rough around the edges, but polite and charismatic.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, forcing myself to smile.

  ‘You should join us for the night.’

  The group of people he was with chimed in. They looked as if they would know how to have a good time. I was torn for a second, but my boyfriend and I would have our whole lives together, so what harm was a night out?

  ‘Okay, sure,’ I said.

  Everyone called the guy X. I didn’t know why but went along with it. Maybe I should have told this X that I had a boyfriend but it felt presumptuous, so I didn’t.

  As soon as I could hang up my apron that evening, I changed my clothes and touched up my make-up. It was an entertaining group. The guys and the couple of girls were drinking and laughing and I quickly had a couple of shots to catch up. Even the taxi ride was fun. There were a number of internal jokes, but I did my best to keep up. Everywhere we went that night, I expected to be asked for my ID but it never happened and it made me feel grown up. It was clear that X was well connected. Wherever he went, doors opened. I couldn’t believe he had chosen to invite me. Although I missed the warmth of my boyfriend’s hand in mine, I enjoyed the power trip.

  Only one incident threatened to ruin the evening. As we left one bar for another, X’s arm had protectively snaked around my shoulders when I noticed my boyfriend’s mother on the other side of the street. I immediately pulled away, pretending to have an issue with my heels, hoping she wouldn’t see me. A couple of minutes later, I stood back up again and she was gone. Had she seen me and if so, had she recognised me? Would she tell her son? The rest of the evening, I worried that he would confront me, even though it was an innocent night out. I felt guilty. But he never did say anything.

  I had no plans to see X again anyway. I couldn’t risk losing my future by being reckless. Only, he started calling me regularly and I couldn’t help but wonder why. He was cool and attractive and could have anyone. Why was he showing an interest in me?

  ‘You could be a model,’ he said to me one evening on the phone, and I laughed.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

  My boyfriend made me feel pretty but no one had ever called me ’gorgeous’ before, and, even though I wasn’t planning to go out with X again, I guess a sort of friendship formed. He was from a similar background to me but had worked his way up. Unlike my boyfriend, he didn’t shy away from my past. Instead of brushing it under the rug as insignificant, he told me how strong I was and how well my hardships would serve me in the future.

  It felt as if he was the first person to see me. I mean: to really see me for who I was. He wanted me to be successful, and the fact that he believed that women should be given more opportunities was empowering.

  ‘Don’t ever be a kept woman,’ he told me.

  I still hadn’t told him about my boyfriend but somehow it felt as if he knew. Perhaps I had let something slip? Anyway, it hit close to home and initiated the first real conversation with my boyfriend about our life together.

  ‘It’s important for me that we both have careers,’ I told him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, bringing me into a hug. ‘You should probably work harder on your exams though.’

  He gave me a cheeky grin, but I was hurt by his words.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to work.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘Only, sometimes I feel like you’re not taking your studies completely seriously.’

  ‘I’m working as hard as I can,’ I said, pushing him away, for once detesting his privileged life. ‘Unlike you, I don’t have a backup. You know, parents who can provide for me if I don’t make any money?’

  My mother could just about take care of herself, although she did provide a roof over my head and for that I was grateful.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  He tried to bring me back into his arms, but I stood my ground.

  ‘It’s too late. I don’t want your sympathy,’ I said and, with that, I picked up my bag and left.

  That evening, as if by divine timing, X came into the restaurant. Chatting to him felt familiar by now. It was effortless.

  ‘Why don’t you join me tonight?’ he said, probably sensing I was in a mood. ‘There are some people I want to introduce you to.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘You do want to be successful, don’t you? I can help you.’

  Being offered help as opposed to money felt good. I just wanted a foot in the door, to anything really. Then I could take it from there.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  I knew he was well connected, I had experienced that first hand, but it never struck me that we hadn’t discussed what career I wished to have. I just accepted his assistance, oblivious to the path he had planned for me.

  Chapter 8

  Frank

  November 2016

  Frank parked and walked up to his daughter’s shoddy front door where he persistently rang the doorbell. Her wreck of a car was parked up front but she still didn’t open. He pulled his jacket close to his chest, fighting off the cold November air. Maybe she was sleeping? Her medication, when she did take it, made her spaced out and vacant.

  He decided to walk around the back to peek inside the windows when a neighbour turned up.

  ‘Everything okay over there?’ she asked, her thick coat barely closing over the large frame.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Frank said, not offering any additional information.

  ‘Are you here about the—?’ the woman started but Frank cut her off.

  ‘I’m not here about anything.’

  He walked back to his car, the woman doing a double take when she saw the waxed BMW i8.

  ‘Leave me alone! My son just died,’ he wanted to yell at the woman. He felt defensive.
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  He couldn’t stand this type of community where every person knew everything about everyone. The same way they had back home in his village in Dalarna. It had been big news when he’d decided to cross the Atlantic in search of a better future. Still, his parents had never visited. Not once, and now they were dead.

  He drove down the road and waited behind a tree for Sofia to venture outside. At some point, she would need to pick up the mail or throw the rubbish out. There was no way he was leaving without speaking to her, although conversations with his daughter had never been straightforward. She was shy and introverted and full of dark thoughts. Her diary had truly spooked him, filled to the brim with fantasises about hurting people. Pages and pages of her lopsided handwriting had detailed how she would cause harm; it had read like a dialogue between common sense and insanity. She had even feared she would stab her own family.

  ‘She’s out of control,’ he’d said to Birgitta, who’d shrugged, putting it down to nervousness.

  ‘She’s simply an anxious child,’ she’d said.

  But then there had been the incident with their house cat, Bingo. In her diary, Sofia had spoken of her love for Bingo but how much she worried that she would accidentally hurt her. A few days later the poor cat lay on the kitchen floor, a steak knife thrust through its heart. Even Birgitta had been shocked by that.

  ‘I see what you mean now,’ she’d said. ‘But what are we going to do?’

  He’d been at a loss. What would people think of them if they found out what their daughter had done? His business would suffer.

  ‘We have our reputation to think of,’ he’d said and, although Birgitta didn’t much care about what other people thought, she had understood.

  ‘Maybe it’s a phase,’ she had suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said, hoping she was right. ‘You often hear of teenagers self-harming. Maybe she just took it one step further.’

  Frank had punished Sofia though and after that there had been fewer diary entries. Still, he hadn’t felt completely comforted by this and had sought the advice of a psychologist, disguising it as a friend’s child who he had wanted to help.

  ‘Hopefully it’s an innocent, inner exchange,’ the psychologist had said of the diary entries.

  ‘What if it’s not?’ Frank had asked, not wanting to mention the cat.

  ‘Well, I can’t say unless I meet her.’

  That hadn’t been possible, of course, but Frank had managed to acquire prescriptions for medication. At first, he had mixed the pills in with Sofia’s food and drink to avoid any arguments. Her more mellow state had made life easier and soon the diary entries had ceased completely.

  *

  Around five o’clock in the afternoon, Sofia finally stepped outside: wearing a faded, black velvet tracksuit, carrying a tied shopping bag presumably filled with rubbish, in one hand. He rushed out of the car, ran up the road and cornered her. She was startled but didn’t scream or run back inside. That was a good sign.

  ‘Your brother died,’ he said quickly before she had a chance to leave.

  How would she react? He desperately held back the tears, knowing that any emotional display would make her withdraw.

  ‘I know,’ she said. Her face remained calm but he detected nervousness under the surface. ‘He drowned, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s what appears to have happened,’ he said. ‘But, Sofia, I’m at a loss. Please help me understand… you know he was a good swimmer, don’t you?’

  She didn’t reply, holding the bag in a tight grip. He noticed she had bitten her nails.

  ‘You were at the house,’ he said, at which point she took a step back. ‘What did you and Anders talk about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said defensively.

  Her beautiful features looked faded. He wanted to shake her, to bring her back to life. Instinct took over and he grabbed her arm. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, loosening her arm from his grip. ‘Let me go.’

  But he couldn’t let her, or any of this, go. He felt pained and desperate, and stepped closer. Soon, her back was up against the door.

  ‘He wasn’t even wearing his swim shorts, Sofia!’ he said, and that temporarily got her attention. Her eyes, hidden under the hazel-brown fringe, briefly met his but she remained tight-lipped.

  ‘You okay over there, honey?’

  The neighbour had reappeared and Frank had no choice but to let go.

  ‘You need to talk to me, Sofia,’ he said quietly. ‘I will not go away.’

  ‘Don’t come back,’ Sofia whispered, her eyes hard, narrow slits. ‘It will be too dangerous for you.’

  *

  Too dangerous for me? Was she threatening him? The thought made Frank mad as hell. Why couldn’t she be fucking normal?

  As he drove off, he wished he could call Birgitta to discuss Sofia but he wasn’t sure how that conversation would turn out. How they had brought up their children had been a recurring argument throughout their marriage. He believed in discipline and she thought they should be free spirits. Sofia moving out hadn’t concerned her. Quite the opposite. At times he even felt she was relieved not to have her daughter in the house.

  Feeling shaken up, he wasn’t ready to return home. He aimlessly drove around until he ended up in the city, feeling tense and nervous, his body cold and tingly as if he might pass out. His oldest son hadn’t been in touch since his brother died, his daughter was a lunatic and his youngest son was… he could barely form the thought… gone. He didn’t deserve this. Anders had been an ambitious student with good grades. He’d had a future.

  Frank’s insides threatened to rip open again. He parked the car and got out, needing to breathe fresh air. How did people survive the loss of a child? Without much thought, he started to wander around without direction. Soon, he found himself tangled up in a group of tourists on a packed shopping street, but the frenzy of people temporarily felt good. It was consoling to be surrounded by complete strangers who had no idea what was going on in his life. He walked down Michigan Avenue, ironically also called the Magnificent Mile, catching sight of a pretty young woman huddled on a pavement. Amongst the crowds of shoppers, she held up a piece of paper in her hand that read ‘hungry’.

  ‘Do you want a meal?’ he asked, and the simple question was followed by a simple nod.

  He brought them to a place that served beef sandwiches, the type of comfort meal he would have had years ago, and tucked into the soggy, gravy-soaked bread.

  The girl’s name was Deena. She was sweet. Youthful and trusting, and she didn’t seem to think it strange that he showed an interest in her. He listened to her story, about her life in the south side of Chicago, her mother addicted to meth. His own problems seemed more distant now.

  He paid the bill and put a couple of extra ten-dollar notes in Deena’s hand, aware that his age was reassuring for her. Like a father figure. He asked if he could drive her home and she didn’t even hesitate before parking herself in the BMW.

  ‘Do you want to come up?’ she asked as they turned into her street.

  He looked around at the dilapidated buildings. Was it safe to leave his car here? Then again, he’d left his car in many unsafe areas before. He stepped outside, locked it and followed her up the steps, careful to watch his back. She offered him a drink and he pretended to sip from the unwashed glass.

  The words were spewing from her mouth now. He’d released something within her. A lending ear could do that; that was the power of listening. Deena went on and on about her problems but instead of feeling soothed, he felt his earlier distress return. He was growing tired of hearing her voice.

  ‘Why don’t you take charge of your life?’ he said, his words harsh and forceful.

  Then he made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  Chapter 9

  Kristin

  May 2017

  Kristin crosses the street to the sounds of the city: heels on cobblestones, street musicians and childre
n crying for ice cream. On a note in her hand is the address of Olof Lindman, her new therapist. Whether she likes it or not, the cap has shaken her up, so this morning she searched the online directory, Eniro, for help. This time, she won’t involve a boyfriend or a husband. Brandon knew too much. A protector can also make one feel claustrophobic.

  She counts the stone tiles under her feet as she avoids stepping on the grout. It’s only when a strong smell of seaweed alerts her to her location that she looks up. Ahead of her is the wide harbour with its monstrous ferries, accommodating people, cars and trucks as they travel across to Denmark. Once, she and Niklas had red hot dogs and lemon soda on the upper deck. It was both scary and exhilarating.

  She follows the directions as they lead her down a suffocating, narrow alley. At the end of it is a chaotic courtyard that’s filled with potted plants and bikes. Weaving her way through, she wonders if Olof is testing his clients by sending them this way. She exhales as she reaches the door and after fifty-four steps up the stairs, she has finally arrived.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Olof’s round bearded face appears behind a door of multicoloured psychedelic glass. He shakes her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, grateful to have arrived in one piece.

  His consultation room isn’t large but it portrays seriousness: the ceilings are tall, the windows framed by heavy velvet curtains, and a dark wooden desk with a green leather top has been crammed into a corner. Olof doesn’t sit at the desk however. Instead, they sink into two leather armchairs by the window, facing each other.

  ‘You look like Scarlett Johansson,’ Olof observes.

  ‘Really?’ Can he tell that they’re both fake blondes?

  ‘I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona last night,’ he explains, lighting the bronze floor lamp between them. ‘But it’s probably not politically correct to watch Woody Allen movies anymore.’

  ‘I used to study film,’ she says.

  ‘Did you? What’s your favourite movie of all times?’

  That’s a tough one. ‘There are many but perhaps Rosemary’s Baby or A Clockwork Orange.’